


sit secluded in hatred (ssshhhhh)

by WOOanao3user



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Depressed TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Memory Loss, Online Friendship, Sleep Deprivation, Suicidal Thoughts, TommyInnit Has ADHD (Video Blogging RPF), Trans Male Character, Trans TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), also im tired and used too many commas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29372661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WOOanao3user/pseuds/WOOanao3user
Summary: Nobody was there for him when he couldn’t get out of bed.Yet he refused to move, and he refused to answer the soft glow of his notified phone.Tomorrow will be better.He’s sure of it.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 7
Kudos: 333





	sit secluded in hatred (ssshhhhh)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ghostbandaids](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostbandaids/gifts), [ly_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ly_writes/gifts).



> warning// suicidal thoughts, self harm, mentioned violent tics, stimming, neglect towards mental health, excessive chest binding, derealization, mentioned romanticizing of illness, and more. don't read if this will upset you :)
> 
> i do not support the romanticizing of illness, i do not romanticize it, it is simply mentioned that it's in tommy's mindset. be safe.

Darkness, the all enveloping black covers everything. He can only see the shifting phosphenes blurring together lines of confusion. 

The clasps of a certain clothing item he happens to wear to sleep almost every night taunt him in succession, irritating him to the point of wanting to let everything go. To stop breathing entirely.

After all, if he was dead, he wouldn’t have to deal with the pain.

His mind wanders to the days that used to be. One time, Wilbur and Tubbo had met with him, all of them chatting in the bathroom. It was a weird situation to describe at first, turning on the hot shower just so they could shove towels in the cracks of the door and to laugh at stupid jokes in the heating mist of their D.I.Y. hell. The foggy feeling filled all of their lungs until symbolic blood dripped from the symbolic lungs of the injured.

He remembers the pain of the days when he came out, the confusion of those around him, the understanding of friends who shouldn’t understand. In fact, he stopped streaming for a week to shut himself off from his friends, something that he often supports other people out of and works with them.

Nobody was there for him when he couldn’t get out of bed.

That week was filled with those days where he could barely stand, he could barely manage to look at himself. So he forced melatonin down his throat until sleep enveloped him over and over, cold despite being bundled in layers on layers on layers. Tortuous beads of sweat (or tears? He couldn’t tell) would drip down his face.    
  


Yet he refused to move, and he refused to answer the soft glow of his notified phone.

Another time, when blood was dripping down his thighs from the self induced pain that he so craved, a guilty pleasure. Not so much as pleasurable as sensory-stimulating, loving the feeling of everything it gave. It stang and hurt, it lasted for long, and it was uncomfortable in a way that hugged him and kissed him and told him everything would be alright if he did it a few more times.

But he’s still just lying in bed, unproductively, dissolving in and out of focus. Out of the reality that this is happening and things are real. How can you tell? What if the blankets and the ceiling and even himself can be proved to exist? Yeah science, yeah people, but what if it’s some maladaptive universe he created in his head again? How can he escape? How can he know he’s not in one right now? 

He pulls the raggedy teddy bear he received from Tubbo on their last visit, destroyed from angry stims and accidentally dropping on the floor during restless nights. His fingers fumble through the loose threads, whispering to himself.

“Shhh, shhh.” The next morning, or afternoon, he would remember this movement and instinctually grab his wrist or hit his leg or draw blood, but today, he takes the self given comfort. He rocks back and forth, filling up everything hears with the wind flowing through the cracked window and the feeling of the teddy bear in his arms. He whispers to himself until sleep tugs at his eyes and the clasps digging into his skin is forgotten.

Tomorrow will be better.

He’s sure of it.

\---

Tomorrow’s not better.

He lies in the comfort of his closets, having moved all of the pillows and sheets into the closet. He’s bundled up in a space with no space, tightly wedged until all that fits is the glow of his sleek phone. Notifications of school work and friendly messages from Discord fill his sight, and all he can do is set the phone down.

He lets the lack of air get to him, the heat of breathing in his own existence, picking out all the bits that he finds to be horrible, and lodging them in the darkest parts of his head.

Vaguely, he remembers that counseling appointment (or CPS appointment, or therapy appointment, or doctors appointment, he can’t remember. It’s getting blurrier everyday,) where the guy recommended breathing.

Tommy is going for the opposite.

Filing through drowning, assisted suicide, poison, overdose, the noose, or the handy dandy knife to the throat, he decides that none of them fit his beloved and romanticized internal aesthetic of what he wants death to be.

Living in a daze, living in that period where he can say, “I’m a YouTuber!” and get away with it. He closes himself off, dreaming of a day where someone would find his corpse in the wrecks of an apocalypse. 

And it’s hard.

It’s hard to move on, and it’s hard to get out of bed. Or to eat, sleep, brush his teeth, shower, wash his face, get up to go to the bathroom, or even move at all. So he stays put until his knuckles tap on the wall and his legs bounce and he needs to do  _ something _ .

Cringing, the sun just barely peaks through the blinds. The house is ominously empty.

Tommy shoves headphones on his head. He doesn’t like the silence.

But he likes the quiet.

Wilbur’s voice hums through the melodies of Saline Solution and Tommy distantly tries to remember the last day he’s talked to somebody. He can’t remember if he’s felt lonely at all or the urge to talk to anybody. Maybe he has emptied his body of all of the feelings. Maybe he doesn’t need his friends.

Tommy curls up under the kitchen table, fighting the urge to delete every group chat he’s in and fighting the nausea of eating a simple granola bar.

He’s not anorexic or asocial, he’s not particularly one to say he could have ADHD or depression or bipolar disorder, he can’t recall ever going in for a diagnosis. (Though his memory was never good anyway, and his counselor did say he needs to go get a diagnosis soon. He stopped going to the sessions following that one appointment.)

So he can’t say he needs help.

Even on the nights where he can’t help but dream of the taste of the strawberry lingers on his tongue as he swallows all of the melatonin pills in the bottle.

But he has to stay.

He has friends.

And despite the voices saying they don’t care, he can’t help but know that it’s shitty to leave someone hanging.

Especially if you’re the one who wants yourself hanging.

\---

Tommy’s brain delves into five different sections of the weird side of YouTube before remembering he got on his computer to write sorry notes to his closer friends.

It wasn’t his intention to disappear for three weeks or to pass his classes with a (admittingly, better than usual) C-, but things happen. Sometimes things happen. They’ll understand.

Somehow, even Tommy’s anxiety seems to be fed up with his shit. Too tired to care. (He still cares.)

He starts with Tubbo. It takes him an hour to write three sentences but he does it.

\---Tommy

Sorry for disappearing, big man. I was sick. But I’ll be back again soon, ready to hang out.

  
The response is almost instant.

\---Tubbo

Tommy, you messaged me yesterday.

  
  


He scrolls up. He did. It was just ‘thanks’.

When did he write that?

\---Tommy

Still, thanks for carrying

  
  


Tubbo already knows about the black outs. He already knows about the weeks at a time where he can’t seem to see.

\---Tubbo

Np :)

  
  


He copy and pastes his three sentences to Wilbur, Phil, and Technoblade. 

The responses all consist of happiness and acceptance, amongst underlying confusion.

Wilbur’s response is last, but Tommy can hear his voice read it.

\---Wilbur

We love you, Tommy. We’re family. We’ll always be here for you, no matter what.

  
  


And that's what gets him, harder than the clasps on his side or the scars on his thighs or the eye bags or the lack of motivation. The violent tics or soft tics, the excited and the dull stims. No matter what.

  
  
  


_ No matter what. _

Tomorrow will be better.

He’s sure of it.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> title from saline solution  
> you're amazing and special. you're good.  
> comments make my brain go brrr and also thisll only be up for a week anyways haha same with any other stories. enjoy em
> 
> inspired by ghostbandaid's story: and i'm lonely (there i said it)  
> and ly_write's story: hurts to feel, cut to numb


End file.
